For Narnia and For Aslan
by lamp before the wind
Summary: After the unsuccessful castle raid, Peter reflects on his actions. Movie-verse.


A/N: Movie-verse. I still don't quite like movie-Peter, but it was interesting to explore his emotions. And since he was portrayed as this immature schoolboy I let him be. And of course, book-Narnia or movie-Narnia do not belong to me. This is set after their unsuccessful raid and before the encounter with the Witch.

"_I think we've been waited for Aslan long enough."_

His very own words, mingled with the anguished cries of the castle raid, rang in Peter's ears. His soul was wracked with guilt of his impetuous decision, as he trod heavily on the road leading back to the How. He had led his subjects on a battle which he believed he could win single-handedly, and led them to a sorry end.

When he had finally called for retreat, the taste of defeat was bitter in his mouth. As he leapt across the drawbridge, feeling the pleading gazes behind the gate pierce through his back, he had not felt like a High King. The High King would not have abandoned his soldiers. The High King would not have left an elderly Minotaur to be crushed under the heavy castle gate, whilst he made good his own escape…

As the miserable group returned, remorseful frustration gnawed away at Peter with every step he took. He had tried to conquer, and lost. His people's grief, however hard they tried to conceal it from their sovereigns, was still obvious. Windmane's eyes were searching frantically for her two missing sons who would never return.

_I__ had suggested it. I caused it_.

The guilt condemned him. Just because he had been too hungry to prove himself better, like he had in England.

_I__ brought them needless suffering._

Lucy and the Narnians who had stayed at the How ran up to meet what was left of their raiding party, their expectant faces growing questioning at their downcast expressions. All this Peter noticed, and it fueled his inner turmoil.

"What happened?"

Lucy's voice was sorrowful. Peter could not bear to tell her that he had failed, that his hands were stained with the blood of the subjects who had trustingly followed him to their doom, behind a cruel iron gate. Desperate to blame someone and relieve his heavy sense of responsibility, Peter did the last thing a High King should do. He blamed Caspian for his folly.

"Ask _him_."

"Me?" Caspian's retort was fiercely indignant, almost like an animal. If Peter had been calmer, he would have noticed the tiny note of distress behind Caspian's tone, but now all reason had departed from him. He wanted only to find fault. _Of course Caspian is to blame, he and his Telmarine ancestors_ – As they argued, Peter was unpleasantly aware that his present behavior was altogether un-kingly. Yet instead of tempering his outburst, the realization merely angered him further.

The sound of swords being drawn cut through the morose silence. Caspian and Peter glared at each other, swords positioned at each other's throats. Peter glowered as he aimed Rhindon at Caspian's chest.

"Stop it!" Edmund's warning sounded exasperated and weary. His raised eyebrow said, _The casualties are more important_.

Scowling, Peter returned Rhindon to his scabbard and stalked into the How as Edmund helped Glenstorm to lower Trumpkin onto the ground. Lucy and Susan remained outside to tend the injured. Caspian had sulkily retired to his quarters.

The giant murals on the walls of the passageways caught Peter's eye as he trudged deeper into the How, not quite knowing where he was going. He paused in front of one depicting the Battle of Beruna, which was the largest and most vivid. The mural's bright colours had faded with the passing years, but one could picture the brilliance of Aslan's golden fur when the picture was newly painted. The artist had portrayed Aslan pouncing on a horrified White Witch, an army of triumphant Narnians charging behind. _Better times_, thought Peter sarcastically, as his fingers traced the outline of Aslan's mane.

"Where are You, Aslan, when we need You?" Peter pondered angrily, pounding a gloved fist against the age-worn wall.

"_Have you forgotten who really defeated the White Witch, Peter?"_

The remembrance of Lucy's words sent a stab of apprehension through his heart. Why had he not listened to Lucy? Had he truly been acting only for his own glory, for his own gain?

"_Exactly who are you doing this for?"_

Even Susan had seen through him, during the raid.

But wasn't all this for Aslan? Why wasn't He here when His people had been suffering for so long?

The flame of the torch resting in its bracket flickered on the wall, making the battle scene look strangely alive. The image of a magnificent golden Lion was forming in his mind's eye, but Peter stubbornly tried to ignore it. _It's just Caspian's ruddy fault, if he hadn't gone barging into Miraz's room –_

"_Why __do you keep Me away, my child?"_

Aslan's rich voice rose in his head, and amidst his stormy thoughts a pair of Lion's eyes penetrated through, filled with slight reproach, and oh, such love. All of Peter's unanswered questions now poured forth with his disappointment, choking him. He avoided the Lion's question, for he remembered that he had disbelieved Lucy on the gorge. The painted Lion stared unblinkingly back at him.

"Why, Aslan? Why did You let the Telmarines invade Narnia? Why do You not send us aid even now? Do You care?"

"_Son, have I ever left you to face your enemies alone?"_

Peter grudgingly recalled the battles he had fought during what was now known as Narnia's Golden Age. There had been some embarrassing mistakes and occasional defeats, but every time they had entered the battlefield with the Lion's red-and-gold standard aloft on the wind, confident that Aslan was with them, even if He was not physically there. And they had always emerged victorious over their foes in the end. Who else should know better than the one who led his troops in each campaign, the High King himself? Biting his lip, Peter shook his head jerkily.

"No."

"_Then __why do you try to triumph over your enemies alone?"_

Peter abruptly grew aware that the How now grew completely still, with only the Lion's voice echoing in his ears. All the noises he was used to hearing in the How ceased, as though they were a curtain suddenly drawn up, hovering in the air. Even the sharp metallic hammering of Dwarfish blacksmiths nearby died away, although Peter knew the blacksmiths were all feverishly forging new weapons non-stop, forgoing even sleep and meals for their work.

For a fleeting moment, Peter thought he heard the faint, far-off sound of a Lion's roar. Peace crept quietly into his heart, replacing his bitterness with calm understanding. He had been blinded by his self-assurance and arrogance, forgetting the very One who had created his kingdom. All along Peter had been foolishly trying to claim authority as Narnia's highest sovereign, the Creator of Narnia himself, failing to remember the King who had crowned him. He had been doing things Peter's way. Not Aslan's way.

Sinking onto his knees repentantly, he placed his cheek against the painted lion's face. He had indeed forgotten who he served, fighting only for the Narnia which he knew, and her Golden Age glory. He resented the Telmarines just because they made Narnia so different from the land he had ruled and loved a thousand years ago, not because of the injustice of Caspian's plight…

Then just as suddenly, the curtain dropped again. Strange chanting floated from the central chamber where the Stone Table was, and Edmund, Trumpkin and Lucy dashed into the passageway.

"Quick, Peter, they're summoning the White Witch! Stop them!" screamed Lucy, her hand clutching her dagger tightly.

Edmund's face was white and drawn, and Peter did not need any explanation why. Picking up Rhindon, Peter ran after them. Trusty Trumpkin hobbled alongside. The war against the Telmarines had not ended, but this time, Peter Pevensie knew where his loyalty lay. He fought not only for his land and his people. He fought for Aslan, under Aslan, who was High King over all High Kings.


End file.
